


Wrap Your Arms Around Your Own Body

by capsicleonyourleft



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsicleonyourleft/pseuds/capsicleonyourleft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is renowned for his ability to charm his way into anybody's bed. Castiel Milton proves more challenging than most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrap Your Arms Around Your Own Body

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarkywoman](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sarkywoman).



Patience is a hard-learned skill. Dean is the first to admit he can be a bit of a hedonist, and an impulsive one at that: maximum pleasure with a minimal time investment is what he normally aims for. That doesn’t mean he can’t defer immediate gratification when the occasion calls for it, or, more importantly, when the foreseeable reward is worth it. For the most part, it doesn’t take much more than a cocksure grin and a compliment to charm the pants off of someone, and Dean had mastered the skill at age 15; it’s always the same script, modified with variant vocabulary. Still, what makes Dean an expert in flirtation is the recognition that sometimes a different technique is required; sometimes, patience is the key to seduction. When gathered properly, information is the most effective of apparatuses. 

During winter break, Dean frequents _The Roadhouse_ every weeknight after work: he orders a beer, chats with Ellen, bickers with Jo. Sure, he flirts, but it’s innocuous for the most part; most of the patrons are regulars, which both limits Dean’s selection and doesn’t bode well for his love-‘em-and-leave-‘em shtick. When he’s looking to get laid, he’s all about the luxury of anonymity, and there are bars far better suited for that. The _Roadhouse_ isn’t Dean’s usual choice for a hookup, and he hadn’t been looking for one when he walked in on Monday night, but one look at Mr. Trenchcoat had changed that. 

The presence of the dark-haired stranger stirred quite a reaction amongst the regulars; Dean watched as men and women alike approached him, pompous and self-assured, only to come back with defeated looks on their faces. Dean was not about to make the same mistake and strike out. Careful observation throughout the week has taught him several things about Mr. Trenchcoat: he’s interested in men, if the way his eyes lingered on Dean that first night was any indication; he has lips meant to stretch around Dean’s cock and hair meant to be pulled on; he’s a leftie; he likes his scotch on the rocks; and, judging by the lack of a ring on his finger and the fact he spent every night this week at a bar, he’s definitely single. It’s everything Dean needs to know. By Friday, he’s ready to work his charm. 

He spots Trenchcoat by one of the pool tables, racking the balls. He’s finally out of his coat and suit jacket, the sleeves of his white oxford rolled up to his elbows — exposing narrow, pale wrists and forearms Dean’s going to love tasting later — and suit pants clinging to a perfect ass. Dean watches him pick up a cue, suppressing a shiver and getting half hard when his long fingers travel along the shaft. Without further ado, he walks over.

“So,” he gets into Trenchcoat’s line of sight, maintaining proper distance; he’s watched enough patrons get too close too soon to know it’s a mistake. Up close, Trenchcoat’s even a better sight: his eyes impossibly big and bright, cheekbones sharply sculpted. His jaw and neck are lightly stubbled, and Dean’s going to love the pull of it against his thighs. “I figured we could keep up with this coy game we’ve got going, or I could do the mature thing and introduce myself.” Trenchcoat’s eyes fixate on his mouth, and Dean grins. Extending his hand, he adds, “I’m Dean.”

The guy stares at Dean’s outstretched hand like he’s not quite sure what to do with it. (And _oh_ , how Dean would love to give him a few ideas, but that’s for later.) “I’m not interested.”

The dismissal isn’t exactly rude, but it isn’t gentle either. A lesser man might walk away with his tail between his legs, but Dean isn’t about to give up — not when the guy _already_ sounds like he’s just been fucked through the mattress, all rough gravel and smooth velvet. Instead, Dean smirks. “Do you always spend so much time eyeing guys you’re not interested in?”

Trenchcoat levels Dean with a disturbingly hot glare. “I’m sure no one has bothered to inform you, but your physical appearance, no matter how attractive, does not guarantee you will get to bed every stranger you may wish to. As I said, I am _not_ interested.”

“Bed, huh? I thought we could start off with a drink, but if you want to skip the pleasantries and get right to business, I can get down with that,” Dean winks, not letting his confident grin slip when Trenchcoat looks thoroughly unimpressed. Dean knew Trenchcoat wouldn’t be an easy target, and he appreciates a challenge. “Tell you what: we’ll play for it,” he resolves, picking up a cue from the stack lined up against the wall. “And when I win, I get to buy you a drink.”

Trenchcoat’s brows wrinkle as he narrows his too-blue eyes. “Are you always so arrogant?”

Dean smile is lopsided and toothy. “It’s part of my charm.”

Trenchcoat actually rolls his eyes and sighs, but Dean can tell he’s considering it. “And if I win, you leave me alone?”

Dean lifts his right hand, folding his thumb over his pinkie. “Scout’s Honour.” 

Trenchcoat looks at him like he seriously doubts Dean was ever part of the Boy Scouts — a smart call, as Dean never was one — but nods anyway. “I suppose that would be acceptable. I should inform you I play by the official rules. I assume you can follow?” 

Dean smirks as he watches him finish raking the balls, taking a moment to admire his hands. Dean’s never really had a thing for hands before — there are better assets to notice, after all — but they really are exquisite. He imagines they’d look even better wrapped around his cock, long fingers locking him in a tight ring, or clutching the sheets as Dean fucks him into oblivion. 

Trenchcoat places the cue ball behind the head-string, bending into position, blue tie dangling against the green surface of the table. His grip on the butt of the cue is firm and sure, and Dean’s cock jumps as he positions his index and middle fingers and the shaft passes through them. Dean notes he has good balance and keeps his cue levelled—guy knows what he’s doing. Dean clearly underestimated him, judged from his looks that he spends more time reading dusty old books than playing pool in bars, but he’s not concerned; Trenchcoat might be good, but Dean’s better.

Trenchcoat makes a clean legal break and pockets two balls: one striped and one solid, making for an open table. Trenchcoat goes for the solids, sinking in the 6. He proceeds to pocket the 2, 7, 3, 5 and 1with little effort, his shots calculated and precise. Pool is all about logistics and physics, Dean knows, but no amount of knowledge is a substitute for practice; he hadn’t counted on Trenchcoat having both. He’s relieved, for a moment, when Trenchcoat aims at the 4 but doesn’t pocket it — that is, until he realizes the 4 is now behind the 11; in order for Dean to pocket it, he’d have to pocket Trenchcoat’s ball, earning his opponent a ball-in-hand and a clear shot at the 8-ball. It seems that, unlike Dean, Trenchcoat hasn’t underestimated his opponent.

Muttering curses under his breath, Dean makes his first shot. He proceeds to sink 6 of his balls. When it comes time to shot the 11, there’s no avoiding it — he pockets Trenchcoat’s 4 with it. The table is clear but for the 8-ball, and it’s Trenchcoat’s play. _Fuck_. Dean swears he sees a small smirk tugging on the bastard’s lips as he takes the cue ball in hand, positions it behind the head-string ( _showoff_ ) and smoothly pockets the 8-ball in the designated pocket, effectively winning the game. Motherfucker.

The next thing Dean knows, Trenchcoat is pressing so close behind him it’s as if he’s never heard of personal space, and when he puts his lips close to Dean’s ear, Dean thinks he might get laid after all. “If you had bothered learning anything about me before attempting to get into my pants, you’d know I’m quite fond of physics, and I’ve been playing this game since I was fourteen.” With that, he walks up to the bar to settle his tab and pick up his coat, sharing a friendly goodbye with Ellen. Dean is left with a burning sense of humiliation and Jo’s knowing smirk, no doubt satisfied that someone was smart enough not to fall for Dean’s tricks.

~*~

“Dean!”

Dean blinks into consciousness at the sound of loud, insistent banging on his bedroom door. The red, angry digits of his alarm clock inform him it’s 09:07 AM. Why the _fuck_ is Sam waking him up this early on his Sunday off?

“Dean,” Sam barges in, and Dean’s too tired to protest the interruption. “Castiel will be here in about an hour. You need to get up.”

“Who?” Dean muffles into his pillow. 

Sam steals the pillow from under Dean’s head, and Dean does muster a sound of protest at that. Sam sighs like Dean is a particularly petulant child he’s sick of dealing with, and Dean can _see_ the constipated expression on his face even with his eyes closed. “Our new roommate, Dean. Remember? He’s moving in today.”

Right. The two of them can't cover the rent for their three-bedroom townhouse since Ash moved out, so Sam’s been interviewing potential roommates for the past two weeks while Dean worked overtime at Bobby’s. By the sounds of it, the guy he picked is a total geek, the two of them bonding over their concern for biodiversity and fragile ecosystems, but Dean had resigned himself to the fact he’s destined to spend his life surrounded by nerds by the time Sam was 10. Besides, he trusts Sam’s judgment, so the guy has to be decent.

 

 

An hour and a half later, a small rental truck pulls up in front of their driveway. Sam goes out to greet their new roommate with a level of enthusiasm that tells Dean he really likes this guy. Dean finishes his coffee and places the mug in their now-empty sink ( _“We can’t let him see this mess, Dean. What kind of impression would that make?”_ Sam had stated). He walks outside just when the guy is stepping out of the driver’s seat and stares, flabbergasted, as his brother greets none other than Trenchcoat with a smile and a handshake. The nickname is hardly fitting now, seeing as his clothes consist of faded jeans and a plain grey t-shirt. _Castiel_ , Dean’s mind supplies. Their new roommate.

Fuck Dean Winchester’s life.

“Dean!” Sam waves him over, completely oblivious to Dean’s internal monologue of _fuckfuckfuck_. “Come here.” 

Dean’s not even aware of moving, but his legs carry him over to his brother and new roommate without his permission. The moment Trenchcoat — Castiel— looks at him, Dean can see a similar _Oh fuck_ process going on in his head, his eyes widening and mouth twitching. 

“Castiel, this is my brother, Dean,” Sam introduces, motioning between them. Castiel is at a loss, looking between Sam and Dean like he hasn’t got the faintest clue how to react.

“Hi,” Dean says when Sam’s face contorts to its confused expression, extending his hand to Castiel. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

Castiel stares at his hand for a moment, much like he had at the _Roadhouse_ that night, before seemingly deciding to play along. “Nice meeting you as well. Sam has told me a lot about you.”

_Great_ , Dean thinks, attempting a smile that just ends up looking forced.

“Come on, Castiel, we’ll help you get set up.”

 

 

Castiel, it turns out, is not one to accumulate piles of junk. His belongings consist of a large suitcase packed full of clothes, a box of kitchen appliances, five jam-packed boxes of books, and a backpack with his laptop and even more books. His furniture include two wide five-shelf bookcases, a dresser, a mahogany office desk and a double-sized bed. Between the three of them, everything is settled into his room and assembled within the hour, Sam and Castiel going on and on about some recent documentary they both watched while Dean wonders how this is his life.

Sam leaves for his job at the campus bookstore just before noon, his hours extended now that everyone is in a rush to get their textbooks before the new semester. The house is quiet but for the sound of cardboard being ripped open coming from Castiel’s room. With nothing else to do, Dean grabs two beers from the fridge and wanders over. If the guy’s going to be living with them, they might as well make the experience bearable. 

Castiel is hanging the last of his clothes in the closet, facing away from Dean. He turns around at the sound of Dean’s footsteps, silent as their eyes meet; Dean can’t help but feel naked under his intense gaze, unaccustomed to what feels like a thorough inspection. He hands Castiel a beer without a word, taking a step back. Castiel seems confused, though he accepts it, his thumb idly scratching at the label as he stares down at the floor. 

“Should I be looking for a new place to stay?”

The rough edge to his tone jolts Dean in surprise as much as his words, the sound of it thin and tired. For his part, Dean hasn’t even considered kicking Castiel out over a simple rejection, as humiliating as the experience was. 

“No, man,” Dean assures. When Castiel doesn’t look convinced, he sighs and adds, “Look, I had a few too many drinks that night and I embarrassed myself. I get that it’s awkward, but... can we just forget about it and start over?”

“You’re willing to do that?” though he keeps his expression neutral, Castiel’s wide eyes betray his surprise.

“Sure,” Dean confirms with a nod.

“I suppose if you’re willing to overlook the incident, so am I.”

“Great.” The same heavy silence evokes, and for a moment, Dean wonders if the awkwardness really is surmountable. “So, um, you want any help unpacking?” he asks, motioning to the open boxes containing Castiel’s books.

“That’s very kind of you to offer, but I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” Castiel says. Some of the tension seems to have worked its way out of his shoulders, his demeanour not as guarded, his movements more fluid. “I’m afraid I’m excessively particular with sorting my belongings.”

Dean snorts and digs into the first box. “Genre and alphabetical order by author, am I right?” When Castiel looks at him curiously, Dean explains, “It’s the same way Sam’s books are set up. It’s cool, man, it’s not like I have anything better to do.”

They work in silence, this one more companionable and a lot less hostile, Castiel hanging his clothes while Dean sorts through his book collection. All of them are visibly old, torn pages glued back into place, their covers worn. 

“Wow. You must have read every one of these books a dozen times to get them in this shape,” Dean comments as he shelves _Crime and Punishment_ into its appropriate slot. 

Castiel shakes his head as he hangs the same trenchcoat he wore the night they met. “I don’t normally read a book more than once,” he confesses. “I have an unfortunate tendency to overanalyze things; a re-read is nothing but an opportunity to look for imperfections I might have otherwise overlooked. It takes away from the organic emotions experienced during a first reading, I find.”

Dean’s brows wrinkle in confusion as he hold up a particularly battered copy of _Catcher in the Rye_. “Then...”

“I purchase my books second-hand,” Castiel clarifies.

“Oh,” Dean says. “I guess that makes sense. Probably save a lot of money that way, right?”

“It’s economical, yes, but that’s more of an added benefit,” Castiel walks over and takes the book from Dean’s hands, fingers caressing its spine, flipping through its pages. His gestures are careful, gentle, handling the book like it’s something precious and fragile. “It’s just that... I find used book have more personality; they have a story behind them, people in whose hands they’ve been and whose lives they’ve affected. Sometimes I find little notes between the pages, be it a scribble about a particular plot development or a discarded shopping list that was used as a bookmark. It makes me wonder who’s held this book before, what their life is like. It’s silly, I realize, but... it makes me feel connected to these strangers, like I’m part of something greater.”

Dean stays silent; somehow, it feels like Castiel has shared something monumental about himself, and he’s not familiar with the proper reaction. Dean hadn’t expected them to reach such an honest point within three hours of knowing each other.

“I’m sorry, I’ve said too much,” Castiel blurts. He hadn’t planned on revealing so much either, it seems. It’s clear Dean’s silence has made him uncomfortable, a blush spreading over the bridge of his nose.

“No, it’s...” Dean wets his lips, unsure of what he wants to say. Words have always failed him where they matter most. “I never thought about it like that. It’s pretty cool.”

Castiel gives a small, shy smile at that, a quick quirk of his lips; it’s barely a smile at all, but Dean decides it’s a good look on him regardless.

They unpack the last box of books together, their hands brushing over the cardboard. When they open it to reveal the complete works of Vonnegut, Dean decides this living arrangement might not be so bad after all.

~*~

It being the last day of winter break, Dean decides they deserve a night out on the town. Sam, utterly unfamiliar with the concept of fun, claims he has an 8 AM class and slams his bedroom door in Dean’s face. Castiel requires a bit of convincing, but eventually agrees to come out to a bar that’s within walking distance; convincing him to leave his suit and trenchcoat hanging in the closet, however, requires considerably more effort. By some miracle, Dean manages the task; Castiel almost looks like an average despaired student in a pair of dark jeans and a loose-fitting blue button-down.

The bar they walk into is crowded enough to suggest they’re not the only students looking to take advantage of their last night of freedom. They grab a table by the corner, away from the drunken chitchat and smoke. When their tequila shots arrive, Castiel downs his without so much as flinching, not bothering to chase it with the lime. Dean really should have learned not to underestimate him, considering how well that worked out for him last time, but damn, the guy can hold his liquor. Dean is by no means a light-weight, but he’s feeling a bit tipsy after their fifth round of shots; Castiel, on the other hand, is barely affected.

“So, Castiel,” Dean says while they’re waiting for another round. “Sam mentioned you’re completing your Master’s in environmental science or something?”

Castiel nods. “Environmental engineering, to be precise,” he clarifies, tracing his fingers along the rim of his shot glass. Castiel is still a bit of an enigma to Dean, and his artful poker face makes him hard to read. While he doesn’t look particularly uncomfortable, Dean gets the feeling this isn’t really his scene, and he wonders why Castiel agreed to come out with him in the first place.

“Engineering, huh? That would explain your interest in physics alright,” Dean jokes, hoping to lighten the mood. They seem to be at a comfortable place with each other — as much as two people who’ve been thrown into their current living arrangement can, anyway — and he hopes alluding to their first encounter won’t bring back the initial awkwardness they’ve been able to surmount. 

“I suppose you could say that, yes.” 

“You have to teach me how to play like that, man,” Dean urges as their beers arrive. “I mean, I thought _I_ was good, but man, that play you pulled on me—”

Dean’s cut off by a buzzing sound, and then Castiel is pulling his phone from his jeans pocket. He frowns at the display and says, “Would you excuse me for a moment, please,” before disappearing into the crowd.

Right. They’ll have to have a talk about proper manners.

As Dean surveys the crowd he catches sight of a pretty brunette eyeing him across the bar, a flirtatious grin playing on her red lips. Her tight blue dress accentuates her round breasts and small waist, cutting off mid-thigh to reveal toned legs. Not one to pass on an opportunity, Dean grabs his beer and walks over.

 

 

It’s half an hour later that Castiel walks up to the table where Dean is sitting with... Kat? Katherine? Something with a K, anyway. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he states, more so to Dean’s date for the evening than Dean himself. “Dean, I just came by to tell you that I’m leaving. I’ll see you back at the house.”

“Don’t wait up,” Dean winks, confused when Castiel’s lips purse into something resembling a frown. 

“Good night,” he tells Dean’s date, who acknowledges the gesture with a smile and a nod, and then Castiel’s gone.

~*~

January goes by in a blur of papers, presentations and tests. Dean is beyond thankful that this is his last term; he’ll finish his studies in April, have the diploma in his hands in June. It’s taken him five years to reach this point, what with work always being a priority in his circumstances, but he made it despite the obstacles that kept paving the way. It’s a gratifying realization, and it pushes him to work even harder, despite his exhaustion; he didn’t come this far to screw everything up with bouts of laziness this close to the finish line.

Dean is mentally sketching the argument for one of his essays when he walks into the house. There are strange, muffled noises coming from the kitchen, and Dean is about to call out when he steps into the room and freezes in place. 

There’s a strange man in their kitchen. A strange man who is currently pressing Castiel against the kitchen counter, sucking on his face and fondling his ass; one of Castiel’s hands is latched in the guy’s blond hair, the other roaming under his t-shirt. They seem entirely familiar with each other’s bodies, flushed close together, comfortable with this level of intimacy — and oh God, Dean can see tongue. The situation is quickly escalating, and Dean’s torn between the desire to flee — can you say _awkward_ — and the desire to be able to actually use the kitchen counters in the foreseeable future. 

Dean must’ve, at some point, made some sort of noise to make his presence known, because Castiel cries out, “Dean!” and bangs his head against the wooden cabinet in an attempt to put some distance between himself and the man he was lip-locked with five seconds ago. He pays no mind to his injury, hurrying to straighten his clothes and hair, as if _that_ will be the giveaway to the fact he’s spent the past ten minutes engaged in heavy foreplay. Meanwhile, the guy he’s been making out with is acting nonchalant, only bothering to give Dean an annoyed look for interrupting. Dean instantly dislikes him.

“Er, sorry—”

“No, please don’t be. Balthazar was just leaving,” Castiel informs, and Dean tries really hard not to stare at the hickey forming on his neck, the saliva still glistening on his skin.

“Cassie—” the guy protests in an English accent, lips set in a frown. That’s as far as Castiel lets him get. 

“Balthazar, _please_.Please leave.”

The guy doesn’t look thrilled, but he picks up the blazer hung on the back of the dining chair and walks toward the back door. He pauses with his hand on the handle, turning to face Castiel. “We still have to talk.”

Castiel nods. “We will.”

Dean’s really not sure those two are familiar with the definition of _talking_ , but he’s relieved when the door clicks shut and an awkward silence befalls the room.

“So, umm,” Dean starts when it’s apparent Castiel is having a staring contest with the linoleum floor. “Who was that?”

“My par—” Castiel stops. “My ex,” he corrects. “I should really get used to referring to him as my ex after three months,” he adds self-deprecatingly, almost inaudible. 

“Right,” Dean snaps, unable to bite back the sarcasm. “That explains it.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel blurts, finally meeting Dean’s eyes, though he does so with difficulty. His cheeks are still red, and Dean hopes it’s from embarrassment and not from—whatever it was they were doing. He doesn’t even want to think about it. “I’m so sorry. I had no right to — I didn’t mean for that to happen. It was terribly disrespectful of me to act in this manner in your home—”

Dean puts up his hands to stop him. “Whoa, man, chill,” he says. “It’s your home, too. If you want to get laid, then by all means, have a good time. But do you think that maybe you could do... _that_... in your own room?”

Castiel’s cheeks flame redder at that, and Dean must admit it's quite endearing. “We wouldn’t have — I wasn’t — none of this was my intention, Dean,” he confesses, his voice worn and inexplicably disheartened. He flops onto the nearest chair, putting his head between his hands. “I wasn’t going to talk to him — we _agreed_ we wouldn’t talk for a few months, dammit—” Dean nearly jumps at the word, never having heard Castiel swear before, “—but he’s been calling insistently, no matter how much I ignored him. I thought meeting him here would be the safest option, that it would work to my advantage and I wouldn’t cave. Clearly I overestimated my self-restraint.”

Dean, having no reply, asks, “How long were you together?”

“We started dating when I was seventeen, though we've been friends our whole lives,” Castiel supplies. For the first time since Dean’s met him, he looks truly miserable, worry lines wrinkling his forehead. Not that you’d expect much else from someone who got out of an eight-year relationship three months ago and just had an encounter with their ex. “He’s been a permanent fixture in my life for so long, and when I saw him today I just...” he trails off then, covering his eyes as if that would chase away the memories. “There’s just so much history between us. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to let all of that go.”

Dean doesn’t have much experience in the relationship department — his longest one lasted for three months with a girl named Lisa, and that was back in high-school — but he can recognize eight years is a significant amount of time to be with someone. He can’t imagine what could tear apart two people who’ve made it that far. Dean’s curiosity wins over his sense of appropriateness and he blurts, “Why did you break up? Did he cheat on you?” He’s probably not entitled to his anger, but it’s there regardless, a ball of fire in his chest.

Castiel gives a small cackle at that. “Nothing as dramatic, no,” he clarifies. “We just want different things, and it was time we acknowledged that. We’d always planned on traveling after we were done our undergraduate degrees, but I had a change of heart during my last year and got accepted into the graduate program here in Stanford. Balthazar came with me, but I can tell he isn’t happy here. It was selfish of me to ever expect that of him. He’s declined jobs that would take him abroad, campaigns he wanted to be part of. He’s missed plenty of opportunities for my sake, and I’m done allowing it. I’m going to start the Ph.D. program next year, and that’s going to take a minimum of three years. It’s hardly fair to expect Balthazar to wait around even longer when he’s already sacrificed so much for my sake. It’s not fair to expect someone to put their dreams on hold for yours. That road would lead us only toward resentment. I’d much rather salvage our friendship while I can.” 

Dean absorbs all this information, watching the solemn expression spreading on Castiel’s face. He states the obvious. “You must have really loved him.”

Castiel gives a small, sad smile. “I did.”

They both know what he really means is, _I do_.

~*~

The successful resolution of a breakup is best attained in two steps: (1) consuming copious amounts of alcohol, and (2) getting laid. Dean is pretty sure he and Castiel are friends now — in fact, he thinks Castiel might be his best friend, which is a testament to how poorly-evolved Dean’s social life is, as they’ve only known each other for two months. As such, it’s Dean’s duty to help Castiel drink and fuck into oblivion until the name Balthazar is no longer in his lexicon. Such a mission, obviously, is best reserved for a Friday night at the local pub.

Two hours and an indiscriminate number of shots later, Castiel is barely tipsy, Sam is drunk, and Dean is approaching shitfaced. 

“So, Castiel,” Dean slurs when it’s evident Operation: Get Castiel Smashed is a bust. Frankly, he thinks he’d have to rob an entire liquor store for Castiel to appreciate the effects of ethanol. Time to progress to Step 2. “Are you exclusively into men, or do you bat for both teams? Just so I know what I’m working with here.”

Castiel regards the question. “I find that a bit too simplistic. I’ve always thought of sexuality in more fluid terms,” he pauses to take a sip from his beer, contemplative. “It just so happens that the only person I’ve fallen in love with is male, but sex and gender identity have never factored into the equation for me.”

“There’s a word for that! It's from Greek!” Sam proclaims excitedly. “...I just can’t remember what it is right now,” he sulks.

“Well, great, because that girl over there has been eyeing you since we walked in,” Dean gestures to a tiny brunette sitting alone a few tables away from them. “Why don’t you go over there and buy her a drink.”

Castiel’s gaze doesn’t even linger on the girl in question. “Dean, I have no interest in copulating with a random stranger.”

“Well, why don’t you go over there and _get_ to know her, if you know what I mean,” Dean winks. Castiel remains thoroughly unimpressed, calmly sipping his beer. “C’mon, man, live a little!”

“Dean, leave him alone,” Sam berates. “Not all of us are willing to jump into bed with the first person who offers.”

“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean snaps. “I’m just trying to have a good time. Don’t make me out to be some kind of sex addict.”

“Oh, please! You are _such_ a hypocrite!” Sam fires back. God, Dean really has forgotten what a surly, confrontational drunk Sam is. “Just last week you hooked up with four different women! If you—”

“I’m going to go,” Castiel interrupts, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he stands up. “Thank you both for inviting me out.”

Dean looks over to Sam, but his brother is just as taken-aback by Castiel’s abrupt exit.

 

 

Dean’s mouth tastes like something had died in it and his head is pounding. He groans against the bright rays of light peeking through his curtains, all but ready to swear off drinking for good. He shifts to his side, intending to sprawl out on his back when he hits something solid, feeling the heat of another body close to his. He doesn’t remember hooking up with anyone last night, and it’s not his habit to bring tricks back to his place anyway. When he opens his eyes, he’s met with a dark mop of hair. He props himself on his elbows to see Castiel is facing the opposite side, maintaining a proper distance between them, oblivious and oddly peaceful in his sleep. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, voice hoarse. 

Castiel stirs, angling his body in the direction of Dean’s voice. “Dean?” he asks sleepily, sounding just as confused as Dean. “Dean!” he shouts in surprise, hurrying to his feet. “I’m sorry. I must’ve fallen asleep here without realizing.”

Dean blinks, still confused. 

“You, umm,” Castiel starts awkwardly, shrugging his shoulders. “You were heavily intoxicated last night. I had to help you to your room, and you asked me to stay. I only intended to do so until you fell asleep. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Dean mumbles, embarrassed. He rubs a hand over his face, his skin clammy. Fuck, he needs a shower. “It’s okay. Thanks for looking out for me, Cas.”

“Of course, Dean.” Castiel blinks like something just occurred to him. “You called me Cas.”

Dean freezes in his spot, momentarily stunned; he hadn’t even realized the nickname slipped out until Castiel mentioned it. “I guess I did. Is that... Should I not do that?”

Castiel is quiet, contemplating. “No one’s ever called me that,” the words are careful, measured, softened by the quick upturn of Castiel’s lips. “I think I rather like it.”

~*~

Writing his last final is a strangely anti-climatic experience for Dean; he’s done with an hour left to spare, but he’s confident with his answers. He’d been expecting euphoria and relief, having spent five years anticipating this very moment; truth be told, he doesn’t feel different. Part of him is unwilling to comprehend the significance of the moment, refuses to acknowledge the accomplishment until there is something to show for it.

Castiel is sitting at the dining-room table when Dean gets home, typing away on his laptop without glancing at the screen, nose buried in a monstrosity of a textbook. At the sound of Dean’s footsteps, he looks up, a smile dancing in the corners of his eyes. Dean can’t believe he once thought Castiel hard to read. He might not wear his emotions on his sleeve, but the subtleties are etched in the creases of his forehead, the set of his mouth; you just have to know where to look for them. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean takes the seat to his left. “Hey Cas.”

“How was your final?”

Dean hesitates. “It was...good.” Then, because it’s Castiel, he adds, “Weird.”

Castiel tilts his head, an eccentricity Dean has grown particularly fond of. “How so?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess... I never really expected to make it this far, you know?”

Castiel gives a small, warm smile. “And yet you have. It’s a great accomplishment.” From anyone else, the compliment could easily be mistaken as condescending, but Cas is only ever genuine, crediting Dean for more than he deserves. He’s scared of the day Cas will realize he can never live up to his expectations.

Cas gets up to open the refrigerator, taking out a bottle of Merlot. “I’ve been meaning to save this for when Sam comes home so we can properly celebrate,” he pulls down two wine glasses, the capsule making a crunching noise when he removes it from the neck, “but it’s five in the afternoon somewhere, and I’m sure he won’t mind if we each have a glass.”

Dean laughs, watching Castiel easily handle the corkscrew. “You didn’t have to do this, Cas.”

Castiel turns around to face him, glasses in one hand and bottle in the other. He takes the seat next to Dean. The only sound in the room is that of liquid sloshing as Castiel fills their glasses. “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

“I never planned on going to college, you know,” Dean blurts. It seems important that Cas knows this, understands how unexpected this development is, why Dean is having trouble reconciling it with the person he was certain he’d become.

Cas lifts one eyebrow, intrigued. “What changed your mind?”

The answer is a simple one, and Dean can’t help but smile around his glass of wine. He’s more of a beer kind of guy, but Castiel clearly made an effort, dubbed the occasion special enough to merit the luxury, and he appreciates it. “Sam and Bobby.”

“Bobby? Your boss at the garage?”

Dean nods. “He’s an old family friend, actually. He took us in after dad died, even drove all the way to Lawrence to pick us up.” For that alone, Dean could never repay the old man. Dean’s been taking care of Sam their whole lives, but he was at a loss when John passed away; their dad might not have been around much when they were kids, but he always made sure the bills were paid and left them money for food. “He gave me a job at his garage right after I got my GED. After a year of working for him, he threatened to fire me if I didn’t get my shit together and went to college,” Dean can still hear Bobby’s gruff threats, the fond look in his eyes that contradicted the tough exterior. “And, well, you know Sam. He’s practically been insisting I ‘fulfill my potential’ since he was twelve, the nerd. After a while I just started thinking that maybe it’s not such a bad idea, realized that I might actually learn how to run a shop if I went into Business.”

Castiel smiles — a soft, fond turn of his lips Dean is proud to have elicited. “I’m glad they changed your mind.” He takes a small, careful sip of wine, gathering his thoughts. A crease appears between his brows, like he’s uncertain of what he’s about to say next. “I hope it’s not out of place for me to say, but... I’m sorry about the loss of your father. It must be very painful.”

The comment surprises Dean. Most people would have taken the out and not mentioned it. Castiel, though, listens between the spaces of Dean’s silences, taking note of what isn’t being said, the words that remain trapped in his throat. His use of the present tense tells Dean he doesn’t expect the pain to have evaporated, even if it has been six years, doesn’t expect Dean to pretend that it’s fine and tell some bullshit story about how he overcame it. 

“Yeah, well,” Dean clears his throat, working through the lump that’s situated itself on his vocal cords. He’s always been reticent about sharing personal information, particularly that having to do with his family, but there’s something about Cas that makes him easy to confide in. “He wasn’t around much when we were growing up, but he did the best he could. I don’t think he was ever the same after our mom died. It kind of sucks that I never got to know the person he was before all this shit happened, you know?”

Castiel simply nods, covering Dean’s hand with his own. His palm is warm and soft. “So much is taken from us before we get to experience it,” he whispers, the note of grief in his voice palpable. “I understand now why you and Sam are so close. I envy you that, at times.”

They’re quiet for a long time, comfortable in the intimacy of silence, Castiel’s hand an anchor for Dean to grab. It’s Castiel who speaks first.

“I never knew my father,” he confesses to the room, his lips quivering under the weight of the words. “He disappeared when I was still an infant. We’re not sure what happened to him. My brother is convinced he abandoned us; my sister thinks he’s dead.” The next sentence is barely audible, Cas’ voice trembling and embarrassed as he finishes, “For my part, I believed — had utter and unrelenting faith, for the longest time — that he would come back to us.”

“Cas...” what he wants to disclose next is not something Dean readily admits, but he needs Castiel to know he’s not alone in clinging to slivers of hope. “When I hear the shuffle of boots, I still think my dad will walk through the door, and it’s been six years.”

The look Castiel gives him is unlike any other Dean has seen him wear, unlike any he’s ever been granted; it’s full of gratitude, like Dean has offered him something invaluable. Castiel cups Dean’s jaw, his touch feather-light, hesitant. For the first time, Dean is comfortable with the intensity Castiel directs at him, having already dismantled himself at Castiel’s feet. This close, he can see the vulnerable curve of Castiel’s lashes, the high arch of his cheekbones, the generous bow of his mouth. Castiel looks unsettled, teeth pulling on the supple flesh of his bottom lip, like he’s scared of what he might do next. “Dean...” 

“Yeah?”

Castiel leans in to close what little distance is left between them, pressing his lips to Dean’s. It’s a ghost of a kiss, a tentative touch; Castiel kisses Dean like it means something, like he’s not sure if this is something he can have. Dean’s certainly not going to be the one to stop him. He puts a hand on Cas’ cheek, the short grains of his stubble rough against his palm. At the encouragement, Cas runs his tongue along the seam of Dean’s lips, teasing them apart, unhurried, like he’s programming the moment into memory. Dean yields access without hesitation, meeting Cas’ tongue, opening wider. Castiel tastes of sour-sweet grapes, the roof of his mouth smooth and inviting. Dean moves his hand to Castiel’s nape, playing with the short hairs curling against his fingers. Castiel moans into Dean’s mouth, sucking on his tongue, palm firm and insistent on his jaw as his thumb rubs small circles behind Dean’s ear. Castiel’s tongue maps the roof of Dean’s mouth, his gums, the inside of his cheeks; it’s as if he wants to know all of it, willing to explore every corner until Dean’s taste is a permanent sensory memory. Dean feels drugged, unable to comprehend anything but the pressure of Castiel’s lips against his, the sinful upstrokes of his tongue. When Castiel rests his palm on his sternum, Dean is burning up, Castiel’s slim fingers licking flames up his spine, burning his mark onto Dean’s ribs.

When they separate, it’s out of necessity, their breaths laboured and uneven. Castiel is panting heavily, the sound of it coiling a physical pang of want in Dean’s stomach, a sensation almost too painful to withstand. His eyes are dazed, unfocused, cheeks flushed red and small locks of hair matted to his forehead. Castiel looks like he’s been running a fever rather than kissing Dean, the sight of him gorgeous, and Dean is comforted to know he isn’t the only one so affected by a simple kiss. Castiel’s gaze, when it finally lands on Dean, is intense as ever; it’s as if he’s trying to see inside Dean, as if he might actually like what he finds there.

Dean is faintly aware of the soft click of the front door in the background, but he can’t bring himself to look away from Castiel, entranced. It’s Castiel who breaks the contact, letting his hands fall from Dean’s suddenly cold skin just as Sam walks into the kitchen. 

“Hi guys,” he greets, tone blithe with the completion of another academic year, oblivious to what he’d interrupted. 

 

That night, the three of them go out to dinner, toast their accomplishments, and bid their goodnights.

~*~

A month goes by without any mention of the kiss. Castiel, by nature of his demanding program, divides his time between attending classes and his research assistantship with Dr. Barnes. Free from the burdens of post-secondary education, Dean works full-time at the shop, logging in extra hours when Bobby needs the help. Sam scores an internship at a local law firm, and while it doesn’t involve much more responsibility than coffee runs and photocopying contracts, it’s valuable experience for his resume.

The three of them quickly establish a routine: Sam and Cas go for a run together at an ungodly hour of the morning and are back in time for breakfast—an event during which Dean fights the urge to slam his hands on the dining table, look Castiel in the eye and accuse, loud as his lungs will allow, “You _kissed_ me!” He knows, from a few whispered conversations he’s heard, that Castiel has been talking to Balthazar; he supposes it’s only a matter of time until they get back together. In the great scheme of things, eight months spent apart are hardly anything compared to a lifetime of history. Dean doesn’t see much of Sam or Castiel later in the day, and he spends most of his nights frequenting random bars, shooting pool and hooking up with women whose names he doesn’t bother learning. (There have been few men in the past five months; their hair is never tousled enough, their eyes never the right shade of blue.) 

On the Sunday before his graduation ceremony, Dean wakes up with a hangover and a red-head in his bed. He stares at the contours of her naked back, stunned; there must have been _a lot_ of tequila involved if he ended up bringing her home. Gingerly, he gets out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxer-shorts, not wanting to disturb his bed-mate; Dean’s never actually done the whole awkward-morning-after routine, and he has no idea how to handle the situation. For the moment, escape seems like the most viable option.

He makes it into the kitchen just as Sam and Cas walk through the back door, sweaty and flushed from their morning run, Sam’s nose scrunching in disgust at Dean’s state of undress. Cas, on the other hand, has a dopey smile on his face, high on endorphins, the curve of his red-bitten lips a gorgeous sight. He’s holding a take-out container from Dean’s favourite bakery, the smell of apple pie overwhelming the room. 

Cas walks over, handing Dean the container with a smile on his face. Their hands brush as Dean takes it, his "thanks" swallowed by the clack of stilettos against the tiled floor. The smile is wiped from Castiel's face in an instant, expression going sour as Dean registers a wet pair of lips pressing against his cheek.

“Thanks for a great night,” a soft voice tells him. The woman is gorgeous, her eyes a vibrant shade of green, accentuated by the matching colour of her figure-hugging dress. With a small smile directed at Sam and Castiel, she slips through the back door.

No one says anything for what seems like a very long time. Cas, finally out of his trance, puts the pie on the counter. Dean wants to say something, _anything_ , but Cas is gone before he gets the chance, the soft click of the door resonating loudly in Dean’s ears.

“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam is struggling to keep his voice levelled, but the disappointed look in his eyes betrays his anger.

“ _What?_ ” Dean snaps back, defensive. Sam is acting like Dean just cheated on someone, for Christ’s sake. 

“How could you do this?” Sam cries, scandalized, the way he always does when he can’t get Dean to see things his way.

“Do what? Get laid? It’s really not that difficult, Sammy—”

“How could you do this _to Cas_?” he clarifies, face already red with exertion. 

“What the fuck business is it of Cas who I sleep with?” Dean huffs, irritated. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Dean almost recoils at the force with which Sam spits out the words. His use of the f word really should’ve alerted Dean as to how pissed his brother really is. “It’s bad enough he has to watch you hit on everything that moves when we go out, has to watch you leave with a different woman every night, now you’re parading them under his nose?”

“What the hell makes you think Cas gives a damn who I sleep with?”

“There is no way you’re _that_ obtuse,” Sam’s tone is more pitying than angry now, and that gets Dean even more riled up. “The guy has been pining over you for months, Dean. You can’t seriously tell me you don’t notice the way he looks at you — heck, the way you look at each other! Why do you have to screw things up for yourself, Dean? If you just ta—”

“Drop it, Sam,” Dean interrupts. He’s not about to be lectured to in his fucking underwear.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Cas, okay?”

“Oh, _come on!_ You two have been—”

“I’m serious, Sam,” Dean warns, fingers clenching into fists. “ _Drop it_.”

Sam frowns, but remains silent. Taking it as a sign of agreement, Dean heads into the bathroom for a cold shower. 

What the hell does Sam know, anyway? He has no idea about the night Dean and Cas met and the resulting rejection. Cas hadn't even considered Dean good enough for a one-night-stand, and he sure as hell doesn’t give a fuck about Dean’s love life.

~*~

There are times when having the last name Winchester really doesn’t work to your advantage, Dean thinks as he watches his classmates go up on stage, shaking hands with various administrators and picking up their diplomas. He couldn’t focus during most of the speeches, found them redundant and tedious, and the ceremony has yet to turn any more exciting. Dean should be thankful that his graduating class is relatively small, but it’s hard to do when they’re only starting to call the letter ‘G’ and his diploma, the product of his hard work, seems so far away. He feels ridiculous in his cap and gown; even though everyone else is wearing the same attire, Dean feels like a misfit.

Dean surveys the crowd, spotting the section where Sam, Cas, Bobby, Ellen and Jo are sitting--Dean’s close-knit family unit. When their eyes meet, Cas smiles at him broad and genuine, like he’s happy to sit there for four hours to watch Dean be handed a piece of paper, like there is no place he’d rather be. He can’t help but smile back, his body relaxing at the cues it’s picking up from Castiel.

When they finally call his name, Dean’s legs carry him without his assent, up the steps and onto the stage. Dean might not have many people in attendance, not compared to other students, but they’re loud enough to make up for it, their cheering distinct and resonant in the mass of polite applause. He shakes hands with the directors, and when the diploma is handed to him it’s heavier than he imagined. He spends the rest of the ceremony staring at it, awed; he never thought he could have this, nevertheless _earn_ it.

At the reception, there are hugs and congratulations and bright flashes that hurt Dean’s eyes. When Cas hugs him, Dean tries not to notice the way Cas’ perfect, compact body fits against his; the warm weight of his arms around Dean’s neck; or the sharp, woodsy tang of his aftershave. 

 

Afterwards, they all go out for dinner and drinks, and Dean has never been so grateful in his entire life. 

 

 

Dean is up early the next morning, still rushed with excitement from the previous day. He whips up some pancakes, figuring they deserve a more interesting breakfast than their usual assortment of cereal and granola. He’s stacking them up on a plate just as Sam walks in, sweaty and panting, pulling his earbuds out of his ears.

“Hey,” Dean greets, placing the plate on the table. “Where’s Cas?”

“Um,” Sam mumbles, seeming nervous. “I don’t think he’s back yet.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “He’s still running?”

Sam shakes his head. “He got a phone call and went out last night after you crashed,” he informs, chewing on his bottom lip.

“Did he say where he was going?” Dean doesn’t mean to pry. Certainly Cas is a grown man who can do what he wants, whenever he wants. It’s just that he’s not really one for going out in the middle of the night; combined with Sam’s odd behaviour, it’s cause for alarm. 

Sam looks conflicted, like he’s not sure if he should divulge the information. It’s making Dean nervous as hell. “Just spit it out, Sam.”

“He said he was going to Balthazar’s,” he relays finally, tone soft and apologetic. 

Dean feels like he’s been slapped in the face. Balthazar. Balthazar, who Cas used to live with and dated for eight years; Balthazar, who Cas spent the last nine months trying to get over. Balthazar, who is intimately acquainted with Cas’ body, who gets to hold and touch and suck and fuck as he pleases, who gets to see Cas at his most vulnerable and have all of him. Balthazar, who Dean can never hope to compete with. 

“Oh,” is the only thing Dean manages to mutter, not having the energy to cover it up as anything other than a weak croak. 

“Dean...” Sam starts, sympathetic. Dean can’t stand his pity. 

“Can you go take a shower before we eat? You stink, man,” he interrupts, opening the cutlery drawer to grab knives and forks.

Sam sighs, but goes to do just that. When they sit down to eat, they do it in silence, Sam sneaking worried glances in Dean’s direction when he thinks he can get away with it. When Sam leaves for his internship, Dean is relieved to escape his brother’s empathic gaze.

 

 

Castiel walks into the house at a quarter past nine, his hair dishevelled and clothes rumpled. A small, content smile is playing at the corners of his eyes.

“Hello, Dean,” he calls casually, as if he hadn’t just had a sex marathon with his ex-boyfriend. 

“So I guess you and Balthazar are back together, huh?” Dean practically spits, unable to restrain the anger coursing through his body. “Tell me, Cas, just how pathetic can you be?”

The muscles in Castiel’s neck jump as he clenches his jaw, mouth flattening into a grim line. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, you spend nine months getting over this guy, over this dead-end relationship, only to, what, blow it all because you couldn’t keep it in your pants?” Dean knows he’s out of line, knows he’s being extraordinarily hurtful; he can’t stop himself from spewing out his anger and frustration. “Are you really that fucking stupid?”

Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean, his gaze gelid. “ _You_ are one to give advice on _‘keeping it in your pants’_?”

Dean knows they’re treading a fine line, is aware of the tension-laden atmosphere; unfortunately, his default has always been to respond to fire with fire. “I might not be wearing a chastity belt, Cas, but at least I have the common sense not to go back to an asshole who’s completely wrong for me!”

Castiel’s fists clench at his sides, anger plainly evident on his face. “You have met Balthazar _once_. You know absolutely nothing about him. Do _not_ presume to know what our relationship was like, or comment on our suitability for one another. We were together for eight years, which is a lot longer than the one-night-stands you excel in.”

“Yeah, well, at least I’m not desperate enough to jump into bed with an ex.”

The next words from Castiel’s mouth are calm, calculated. This, Dean knows, is when Castiel is most angry. “Last I checked, Dean, it is none of your business who I choose or do not choose to sleep with.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t,” Dean concedes, crossing his hands over his chest. Since he’s pretty much blown his and Castiel’s friendship, now is the time to get an answer for the question that’s lingered in the back of his mind for months. “Tell me one thing, Cas. What’s Balthazar got that you’re willing to give him another chance, when you wouldn’t give me even _one_?”

Castiel looks like he’s been slapped. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Dean demands. “You wouldn’t even have one lousy drink with me, and yet you’re willing to spend another eight years of your life chasing a relationship you know won’t go anywhere. Am I really that fucking repulsive to you, Cas?”

Castiel sighs, shoulders dropping. “I turned you down, Dean, because _despite_ my attraction to you, I refuse to be another notch in your bedpost.” He licks his lips, rubbing a hand across his tired face. “Dean, I think you are... extraordinary. I want you—I have wanted you for a long time. _All_ of you. I see the way you look at me, and sometimes I think that maybe we could... nevermind. Obviously, I was wrong. You know by now that I am not one for compromise. I’d rather not have you at all than have only part of you — a part you’re so willing to offer to anyone who shows interest.”

“How the hell did you know what I was or wasn’t willing to offer you? You wouldn’t spend five minutes with me!” Dean huffs, cheeks flushed red with anger.

Castiel gives a sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know your type, Dean. That was enough, even back then.”

“So, what, you took one look at me and assumed you had me all figured out?” he never expected Castiel, of all people, to be so callous and presumptuous. “Fuck you, Cas. You can’t just judge people without taking the time to get to know them!”

“It was rush of me to jump to conclusions, yes,” Castiel admits ruefully, voice softer than it has been for their entire exchange. “But I was right, wasn’t I?”

Dean doesn’t know how to answer that; he’s pretty sure Cas isn’t expecting a reply, anyway. He thinks back to all of the women he’s been with in the past six months, the women he screwed around with right under Cas’ nose. He’s done nothing but validate Castiel’s initial impression from the moment he moved in. 

Dean doesn’t know what he can say to counteract his actions, so he watches, silent, as Castiel walks to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “Balthazar and I aren’t back together,” he volunteers without turning around, and Dean is forced to watch his back, trying to decipher the visible lines of tension. “He’s a dear friend, and despite our failed romance, he will remain one. We talked at length, about many things; a conversation was long overdue. That was it.” With that, Castiel is out the door, leaving Dean nauseous with regret. 

 

Hours later, Dean finds a graduation present in his room. John's old gramophone sits on his bed, its broken needle replaced with a new one, along with an LP of _Physical Graffiti_. Dean kept it in their basement for years, never having the time or heart to fix it up. His hands are shaking when he opens the card.

  
_Some things are taken from us prematurely, but if we're lucky, there are parts we can keep._  


\- C.

~*~

The next month is absolutely miserable. Castiel is busy finishing up his classes, and while he doesn’t go out of his way to avoid Dean, he certainly doesn’t make an effort to spend any significant amount of time in his presence. Dean keeps occupied, but he still ends up with too much time to think; mostly, he thinks about how he screwed things up with Cas, what they could have had. He feels ridiculous doing it, but he can’t help it, can’t deter the thoughts and rumination no matter how hard he tries. Even Bobby notices Dean’s foul mood, though he doesn’t comment on it; mostly, he just mutters ‘idjit’ under his breath and lets him work it out under a car.

“You look like shit,” Ellen declares the moment Dean settles in front of the bar on a Friday night.

“Yeah, well,” he replies simply. He doesn’t have the energy to muster a witty response. “I feel like it, too.”

Ellen eyes him suspiciously, and the look in her eye tells Dean she has a pretty good idea what this is about. She’s always in the know, despite what she might let on. “Where’s Cas? Haven’t seen him around lately.” 

“Don’t know,” he admits, accepting the beer she hands him. “I haven’t seen much of him either.”

Ellen looks him up and down, assessing. The determined expression on her face can only mean Dean is about to get chewed out. “Whatever it is you did, kid,” she starts, pausing to look him straight in the eye, “ _fix it_.”

Dean frowns. “What makes you think I did anything?”

“Dean,” Ellen’s voice is far more patient than Dean ever recalls it being, “I’ve known you for a long time. You have a tendency of messing things up when they can work out in your favour.”

“There’s nothing to mess up,” Dean protests. He’s getting pretty sick of people acting as if he and Cas are a couple. 

Ellen points a stern finger dangerously close to his face. “Don’t sit here and bullshit me, kid — or yourself, for that matter,” she scolds. “Just fix whatever needs fixing.” 

Dean has no response to that, so he stares at the bottom of his bottle.

 

 

Dean and Ellen are still chatting — though they’ve moved away from the awkward topic of his non-existent love life, _thank god_ — when Castiel walks in with Balthazar. The bar seems eerily silent as Castiel notices him and their eyes meet, the tunes of Johnny Cash’s guitar nothing but a blur in the background. While Castiel hovers uncertainly by the door, Balthazar charges in as if he owns the place.

“Dean! Fancy running into you here,” he calls like they’re old friends. “Cas and I were just about to have a few drinks. Why don’t you join us?”

Castiel’s jaw clenches and he glares at Balthazar.

“Um, thanks, but I—I should get going,” Dean says, getting up.

“Nonsense!” Balthazar exclaims, wrapping his arm around Dean’s shoulders and leading him toward a table. “Sit, relax. Help us celebrate Cassie’s last final of his Master’s.”

“You wrote your last final today?” Dean can’t help but asking, knowing how hard Castiel’s been working for this moment. When Castiel’s eyes meet his, Dean is reminded of just how blue they are. He almost misses it when Castiel nods. “Uh, congratulations.”

 

The next half-hour is painfully awkward. Balthazar, either entirely unaware of the tension between Dean and Castiel or plainly ignoring it, does most of the talking. Dean’s not too attuned to what he’s saying, busy watching the way Castiel resolutely doesn’t meet his eye and the way he stares at the floor as if hoping it would swallow him whole, obviously uncomfortable in Dean’s presence.

When Castiel disappears to the bathroom, Balthazar’s entire demeanour changes. The look he gives Dean is nothing short of angry, meant to intimidate. “So, Winchester. When are you going to get your head out of your ass?”

Dean tenses, sensing confrontation. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Balthazar sighs, patience dwindling. “My ex, for reasons that are a complete mystery to me, has fallen head over heels for you. Now, what are you going to _do_ about it?”

“Cas isn’t in love with me,” Dean says, and it sounds bitter even to his own ears.

Balthazar chuckles. “Maybe not yet, but he’s certainly getting there,” he assures. “Or have you not seen the way he looks at you? Trust me, I know the look all too well—it used to be directed at me.” When Dean doesn’t answer, Balthazar continues, “Listen up, Winchester, because I’m only going to say this once. You do anything to hurt him, I’ll break your pretty little face. We clear?”

Dean isn’t intimidated by Balthazar—he’s confident in his ability to hold his own in a fight—but he doesn’t doubt his promise. Dean might not be his biggest fan, but it’s easy to see that Balthazar truly cares about Castiel.

“Clear,” he says, lifting his beer to his lips.

~*~

Dean knocks on Castiel’s door, grateful that the light is on despite the late hour. Cas is continuing his internship with Dr. Barnes throughout the summer, and Dean’s willing to bet the nerd is buried in research. A smile spreads on his face as he imagines Cas falling asleep in front of his laptop, cheek pressed against the keyboard.

Cas opens the door looking just as drowsy and bleary-eyed as he'd anticipated. There’s a yellow smudge of highlighter on his left cheekbone, and his hair looks like he’s been running his fingers through it. The grey hoodie he’s wearing is a size too big for his frame, sliding off the slope of his slim shoulder. Dean is seized with such a swell of affection for the guy, and he wonders how it took him so long to get it, how it took him so long to see clearly.

Cas’ eyes widen, evidently surprised. “Dean?”

“Can I come in?” Dean asks, shifting awkwardly.

“Of course,” Castiel says, moving aside to let Dean enter the room.

Once inside, Dean is at a loss. He’s thought about what he might say, but the rehearsed speeches he'd come up with seem contrived as he goes through them in his head. 

“Look, Cas,” he starts, meeting Castiel’s gaze. It’s as intense as Dean remembered it, making him feel bare and vulnerable. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For, y’know, what an ass I was that day.”

Castiel is quiet for a moment; to Dean, it stretches on for eternity. “I’m sorry as well,” Castiel admits. Dean missed the low rasp of his voice. “The things I said to you were...unnecessarily harsh.”

Dean laughs, feeling lighter than he has in a whole month. “You were a dick about, yeah, but... you were right.” Castiel’s face falls at that, but Dean is not about to let another misunderstanding occur. There are things he has to say, and then... then the ball is in Cas’ court. “Look, Cas,” he pauses to take a deep breath, “I don’t... I’m not good at this stuff, okay? And you’re right, I... I’ve mistreated a lot of people and made some mistakes. The thing is, I’m crap at relationships. I’ve never had one that lasted more than a few weeks.”

Castiel’s frown deepens. “Dean, I don’t und—”

“I want to try,” Dean blurts before he can lose his courage, before he can back out and the words remain trapped in his throat. “If you let me, I’ll try my fucking hardest with you, Cas. I’ll probably be a total asshole at times, and say really insensitive things, do all the wrong things, but I—”

Dean’s back hits the door before he can finish the sentence, the handle catching uncomfortably against his spine. He’s not sure at what point Cas managed to close in on him, but he doesn’t dwell on it much when Cas cups his face in his hands, thumbs tracing a gentle pattern on his cheekbones, splaying his fingers over the sensitive skin behind his ears. Apparently, that's all he needed to hear, and Dean is stunned and grateful for how easy it was. Castiel crushes their mouths together, far more aggressive than that first kiss they shared all those months ago, teeth clashing and tongues tangling. The three days worth of stubble on Castiel’s jaw tickle against Dean’s chin. He grabs Castiel’s nape to pull him closer, running his hands through Castiel’s hair like he’s wanted to since the night they first met, grabbing thick tufts between his fingers.

It doesn’t take much effort to change their position, Castiel readily allowing Dean to maneuver them until they lend on the bed. The cotton sheets are soft and cool against Dean’s back, Castiel a warm, solid weight above him. They trade desperate, sloppy kisses, the sound of their lips and saliva obscene in the quiet room. 

“Dean,” Cas drawls, his voice awed, expression reverent as he looks down at Dean. He chews on his red-bitten bottom lip, the sight going straight to Dean’s cock. “You have no idea...” he trails off, burying his face in Dean’s neck. He rests his palm over Dean’s sternum, its heat making his chest feel like it’s on fire.

“I got you, Cas,” Dean whispers into Cas’ ear, eliciting a full-body shiver. He runs a soothing hand under his hoodie, feeling the knobs of Cas’ vertebrae, overwhelmed with the warmth of his skin. It’s hard to believe he’s allowed to have this after months of longing. 

“Dean, please...” Cas says, lips moving against Dean’s collarbone. His hands stop at the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, fingers skirting the edges and brushing the skin underneath. “Can I?”

“ _Yes,_ ” is the immediate, instinctive reply, and how is that even a question? “Please.”

Cas seems content with the answer, divesting Dean of his shirt in a matter of seconds. Dean expects him to start on his belt buckle next, but instead Cas maps the contours of his chest, watching his pale, dexterous fingers move against Dean’s tanned stomach. The expression on his face is stupefied, his eyes wide and unblinking as if afraid Dean might disappear between one moment and the next.

Dean grabs Castiel’s wrist to stop the movement of his hand, covering his palm and intertwining their fingers. He needs Cas to know that he’s in this all the way, that he’s just as terrified by this colossal thing between them. Mostly, he needs Cas to know he’s willing to try despite of it, whereas with anyone else the fear would have long since sent him running out the door. “I’m here, Cas,” he promises.

Cas closes his eyes, squeezing Dean’s hand as he nods. Encouraged, Dean tugs on Castiel’s sweatshirt and pulls down the zipper, the sound loud in his ears. Castiel opens his eyes when Dean snakes a hand under his t-shirt, breath hitching when Dean’s fingers brush a nipple.

“Stop teasing, Dean,” Cas commands, voice a low growl. Dean doesn’t need to be told twice, throwing Cas a satisfied, flirtatious smile before reversing their position and climbing on top of Cas, lifting up his shirt and tossing it across the room. His hands immediately start exploring the flat plane of Castiel’s stomach, the sharp protrusion of his hipbones, the lean muscles of his chest. Dean feels lighter with each touch, the pent-up frustration of the past few months leaving his body in tides. He reaches for Castiel’s belt-buckle, metal clacking as he unfastens it. The bulge in Castiel’s pants is impossible to ignore, and Dean leans down to nuzzle it, loving the heat and the resulting moan from Cas. He pulls the denim down, revealing pale, toned thighs. 

The temptation to hook his fingers in the elastic of Cas’ boxers is strong, but Dean figures some teasing is worthwhile. He kisses the exposed flesh of Cas’ stomach, dipping his tongue into his belly button. His hands inch their way up Cas’ thighs, and Dean’s delighted when his efforts are rewarded with a low, loud moan. Cas’ cock nudges against Dean’s chin when he kisses lower, impossibly hard and a little wet. Dean nuzzles the damp spot on the front of Cas’ boxers, inhaling the sharp smell of his arousal. And really, Dean is only human, and at this point he can’t stop himself from lowering Cas’ boxers, admiring the clean jut of his cock, the precome beading at the head. He’s aching to taste it, aching to taste _Cas_ , familiarize himself with the shape of his body, the warmth of his skin, the jump of his muscles under Dean’s touch. He lowers his head to lick the underside, Cas’ hips bucking forward and his palm fitting at the back of Dean’s head, clutching at his short hair. Encouraged by Cas’ enthusiasm, Dean wraps a hand around the base of Cas’ cock, swallowing him down as far as he can, loving the weight of him on his tongue. Castiel’s fingers travel to Dean’s jaw, feel the swell of his cheek where it curves around his cock, and it might be the most erotic moment of Dean's life. After a few moments of suction, he pulls back a little, swirling his tongue around the head and teasing the slit. Cas’ entire body convulses at the sensation and he growls out Dean’s name. Dean’s nerves are already pulled tight, overwhelmed by the sensory input. There is so much he would like to do with Cas, so much to get to, and he doesn’t know where to begin. He wants to suck Cas, fuck him boneless, kiss him breathless. He _wants_.

“Want you to fuck me, Cas,” he decides, placing a light kiss on Cas’ shaft before moving up to chase his lips. “Think you can do that for me?” 

Cas keens his assent, tossing his arm out and fumbling to reach his bedside table. He manages to open the first drawer, and Dean grabs lube and a condom, tossing them on the bed. He undoes his belt and zipper, shimming out of his pants and boxers in record speed, impatient. He uncaps the lube with a quick snap, starts coating his fingers when Castiel grabs his wrists, flipping their position and lending on top of Dean. 

“I want to see,” he demands hotly, his pupils blown. He grabs the lube from Dean’s hand, sliding down the bed until his face is levelled with Dean’s hard cock, breath ghosting over the head. Dean moans at the sensation, his volume increasing as Cas kisses the inside of his thigh, palm curling over his knee. 

“Fuck, Cas,” he pleads, spreading his legs and dragging Cas up for a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. Cas’ thumb circles his rim as he fucks into his mouth, exploring the curve of Dean’s ass. Dean gasps when he feels the tip of a lubed finger at his entrance, sliding in to the first knuckle. Cas distracts Dean from the uncomfortable stretch with the upstroke of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, nipping and pulling on his bottom lip. Then, Castiel slides back down his body, and Dean is about to protest when a second finger joins the first, stretching him wider, fuller. 

“Fuuuck,” Dean calls brokenly. Castiel stops what he’s doing, looking at Dean questionably. “‘S good,‘s good,” Dean assures, suppressing another moan. “Keep going.” Cas does, and this time Dean keeps his eyes open as Cas starts scissoring him, watching him. Cas is concentrated on what he’s doing, his eyes fixated on the place where his fingers are disappearing inside of Dean.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” Dean observes, smirking proudly. “You like watching your fingers inside of me, huh?” Cas moans needily, curling his fingers just so until they rub against Dean’s prostate. Dean’s not sure how he’s currently capable of cognitive function, but apparently his ability to dirty talk is the gift that keeps on giving. “You like watching me fuck myself on your fingers, Cas?” Dean sure likes the idea of coming on nothing but Castiel’s clever fingers in his ass. Cas is panting heavily, fighting to regain composure; clearly, he’s as big a fan of the idea as Dean is. Still, Dean has bigger plans for tonight. “Next time, Cas,” he promises. “Next time you can spread me out, fuck me with those gorgeous fucking fingers of yours until I come. Want you inside of me, n—”

Cas tongue joins his fingers, and the last of Dean’s functioning neural circuits are frayed. Dean’s always been adventurous in bed, willing to try most things once, but this particular act has always seemed too intimate to share with a stranger whose name he wouldn’t recall in the morning. Cas isn’t a stranger, of course — Dean trusts him unequivocally, and Cas’ readiness to do this for Dean cements the significance of this thing between them. Cas seems all too willing to give Dean this pleasure, licking around his rim before flatting his tongue to dip inside, _inside of Dean_. Dean thrashes on the bed, overwhelmed with the new sensations, but Cas’ other hand is low on his stomach, keeping him in place. He scissors his fingers, opening Dean wider, working his tongue in with quick little jabs. Dean’s feels like he’s on fire, his nerves alight, and he lifts his hips and pushes down, desperately trying to fuck himself on Castiel’s tongue and fingers. 

“Cas, please,” he urges, wanting more, needing to feel all of it. In response, Cas squeezes his thighs, tongue dragging across Dean’s perineum. Dean howls, and Cas must take pity on him, because he tears his wicked mouth away from Dean’s flesh. His pupils are blown with lust, and Dean is proud to have elicited such a reaction out of him with some sound effects and dirty talk. He cups Cas’ cheek, latching onto his neck and kissing up until he reaches the bolt of his jaw. “Want you to fuck me, Cas,” he whispers in his ear, pronouncing each word carefully before flicking his tongue against the shell. “Want you inside me, Cas. Make me feel it. Make me feel _you_.”

It’s Cas’ turn to groan, and it seems he doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs the condom and tears the foil with his teeth, expertly rolling the latex onto his erection. He lifts Dean’s legs up on his shoulders, lining his cock with Dean’s entrance, where his mouth left a wet trail of cooled saliva. He adds a handful of lube into the mix before pushing in, slow and careful. Dean bites his lip and wills his body to relax, working through the painful burn as Cas stretches him wide, inch by inch. 

“Are you okay?” Cas asks once he’s sheathed inside, remaining still but for the dexterous fingers caressing Dean’s collarbone, moving up to his jaw. Were it anyone else, Dean would’ve been uncomfortable with the intimacy, embarrassed with himself for how affected he is; with Cas, he has no qualms leaning into the touch, having exposed his vulnerabilities long ago.

Dean closes his eyes and nods. “Just give me a moment,” he says, his voice rough to his own ears. Cas leans down to nuzzle at the divot between his neck and shoulder, and Dean feels his body relaxing, resistance slowly melting away. Cas closes his mouth around Dean’s Adam’s apple, applying suction and undoubtedly breaking the skin. Dean hasn’t walked around with a hickey since he was seventeen, but he likes the idea of having Castiel’s mark on him, even if it will fade in a matter of days. “Move, Cas.”

Cas does, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. “Dean,” he cries out, biting on his lower lip. Dean leans up to take the supple flesh into his mouth, raking his fingers down Cas’ back, feeling the bony ridges of his shoulder-blades. It’s instantly addictive, and Dean doesn’t ever want them to separate, doesn’t want this feeling to stop. He lifts Cas’ wrist up to his mouth, kissing the inside of it, grazing his teeth across the knob of bone. Castiel’s breath hitches, but he keeps his hips moving, working in and out of Dean in a steady rhythm. Dean desperately wants to see the point where their bodies connect, wants to watch Cas’ cock stretch his hole, turn it red and swollen.

“Wanted this for so long, Cas,” he finds himself confessing, flushing red with embarrassment when the words reach his ears. Cas opens his eyes to look at him, _really look_ , and he tangles their fingers together, halting his movements.

“Me too,” he assures, punctuating the statement with a delicious roll of his hips. “Dean, you have no idea...” The heat radiating from their bodies is close to unbearable—sweat is starting to gather on Cas’ brow, and Dean is flushed all over, his lungs burning. Cas’ thighs are shaking with the effort as he increases the tempo, fucking into Dean with long, hard thrusts. Dean grabs the meaty part of his thighs, helping guide him along as they race toward the finish line. Dean’s cock is trapped between their sweaty bodies, rubbing against Cas’ smooth belly. Dean’s never needed anything like he needs Cas’ fingers wrapped around his dick, _right now_.

“Cas,” he whines, drawing out the syllable. “Touch me.” 

Cas obeys, locking Dean in a tight circle made up of his thumb and index finger. He pulls on the shaft, matching his rhythm to the thrust of his hips, and an expert flick of his thumb across the head is all it takes for Dean to come. He throws his head back, his pleasure white-hot and intense, starting low in his belly and spreading like wildfire, his vision blurred and breath ragged, Cas’ name on his lips as he comes all over his chest and stomach. When he comes to, Castiel’s striking blue eyes are on him, sharp and focused, like he’d been watching and cataloguing the moment in memory. His balls are heavy against Dean’s ass, clearly on the brink of release. He spreads his legs wider, making content noises as Cas hits his sensitized prostate. Three, four more thrusts and Cas is coming with a shout and Dean’s name on his lips. His orgasm sends him collapsing on top of Dean, his body shivering. Dean cards his fingers through Cas’ dark hair, playing with the curled strands plastered to his nape. When his breathing returns to normal, Cas pulls out of Dean, staying close as he spreads on his back next to him.

“That was....” he seems to be at a loss for words, blissed out and incoherent.

“Mind-blowing,” Dean supplies with a smirk.

“Yes,” Cas concurs with a small smile of his own. “That is an ample description.”

Dean bends down to retrieve his t-shirt from the floor, intending to clean both of them. His eyes nearly pop out of his skull when Cas dips a finger in the come covering his chest — Dean’s come — and brings it to his mouth, licking his finger clean with a thoughtful, interested expression on his face. 

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean groans and his cock gives an interested but ultimately futile twitch, because that has got to be the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen. He leans down to steal a kiss, probing inside of Castiel’s mouth for his own taste. Cas mewls into his mouth, lazily stroking his tongue against Dean’s. When they separate, Dean wipes the mess from Castiel’s stomach and throws the t-shirt across the room. He’s bone tired, and when Cas pulls him closer and pillows his head against his shoulder, Dean doesn’t put up a fight.

 

 

Dean wakes up to the warmth of Castiel’s arms around his waist, nose pressed against his neck. He contemplates interesting, creative methods he could employ to wake Cas up when the floorboard creaks and the door opens.

“Cas, are you up—” Sam stops in his tracks, taking in the scene in front of him. Dean freezes as their eyes meet, Sam noting their compromising position. “Fucking _finally_ ,” Sam all but screeches, and Cas stirs in Dean’s arms, eyes adjusting to his surroundings. His hair is in a total state of disarray and he blinks, disoriented. 

“Sam?”

Sam has the decency to look embarrassed, face flushing red like he’s only now realizing what he walked in on. “Um. I was—I was just coming to get you for a run, but, um. I can see that you’re, argh, busy,” he says awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. “I—I’m glad you guys worked through your differences. I’ll, um, get out of your hair, now.”

“Don’t worry, Sammy, I’ll make sure Cas gets in a good workout today!” Dean yells after him.

He hears Sam’s indignant “Gross, Dean!” from the other room, smiling smugly. Cas, on his part, is laughing into his pillow, carefree and lighthearted. It’s a good look on him, and Dean decides he likes being the culprit of such a reaction. He’s going to do everything in his power to make this a reoccurring phenomenon. 

He rolls over to get on top of Cas, intending to make good of his promise.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I don’t own Supernatural or its characters. No copyright infringement is intended. Title is from Billy Collins’ poem _[Embrace](http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/billy-collins/embrace-16/)_.
> 
> Written for sarkywoman on LJ , though it is _extremely_ late, for which I cannot apologize enough.


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